


made a wish (and lost it down the wishing well)

by shatteredhourglass



Series: Musicians!AU [5]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Minor Bucky Barnes/Clint Barton, Minor Violence, Natasha Romanov Feels, POV Natasha Romanov, Possibly Too Protective, Protective Natasha Romanov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:34:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22614934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: The life of rockstar Natasha Romanov, and the events that have led up to now.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov
Series: Musicians!AU [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1427029
Comments: 81
Kudos: 244





	made a wish (and lost it down the wishing well)

**Author's Note:**

> I've seen a bit of controversy about this AU over Natasha's part in Clint's insecurities, and I wanted to shed a little light on the situation before we swing back over to the whole Clint/Bucky situation. This isn't my longest series in terms of word count, but it certainly has the most installments. Who woulda thought it?

Natasha’s made a lot of hard decisions in her life.

The one that stands out first was when she was eight.

“These are your new parents,” the lady tells her. “Their names are Ivan and Christina. Please don’t run away from them like you did with the others, you’re going to get hurt.”

Natasha is suspicious, but she’s spent three weeks on the streets and the gnawing hunger in her stomach makes her stay. Christina is a nice woman. She enjoys knitting and sewing, careful needlework with sparkling threads and vibrant fabrics, and she invites Natasha into her crammed little office room to show each piece she’s made.

There is a black scarf with a blood-red hourglass on it, and it’s the most beautiful thing Natasha’s ever seen in her reasonably short life.

Christina enjoys teaching her as well; both the schooling Natasha has missed since she ran away last and her crafts. The mathematics is hard but the English lessons are much harder when Ivan speaks Russian as well and it’s so much _simpler_ to slip back into her native tongue. She’s small and single-minded and pronouncing a hard _a_ sound is annoying.

It’s a simple life.

It takes Natasha six months before she wakes up in the middle of the night because of the storm howling outside her window, heads for the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water and hears Ivan yelling and the shattering of glass. Christina’s sobbing, and Natasha calls the emergency services before she grabs the beautiful black scarf and flees into the night.

Another, when she’s thirteen.

“What a beautiful girl,” the man says, eyes sliding over her gauzy black dress and she feels dirty just by standing here. “Tell me, have you come to strike a deal?”

“I have,” she answers smoothly.

Her English has improved since Christina, and so has her plotting. She slides into his lap easily, trails her fingertips over the front of his expensive suit and tries not to inhale the thick cigar smoke in the air. He doesn’t have any bodyguards in his private room - they’re to keep the men out, mostly, not the tiny girls in scarves that make no sense in the Louisiana summer.

“What do you want?” He’s practically drooling. “Riches? A beautiful home?”

“I want many things,” she tells him.

He tugs at her scarf. “You can have them. First, take this off. It has no place covering you up.”

“First I’d like something from you,” she says, and then she slits his throat and runs, hoping that the girls in the basement have escaped with the time and life she’s bought them.

They throw her into juvenile detention when they catch her at fifteen.

It’s not a normal place.

It’s for the dangerous ones, she can tell, padded rooms for children who have killed and fought and are so damaged there are more cracks than smooth skin anymore. There’s a girl in the room next to her who screams herself hoarse and then screams some more, and Natasha’s already measuring up the guards for weaknesses when they allow her into the recreation room.

“If you make a move they lock the doors automatically,” a voice says casually. “Then they gas us. No dice.”

She turns to see a boy not much older than she is, gauze taped over one ear. He’s wearing a smile that’s more amused than anything else, soft blond hair and bruises colouring in a rainbow over his face and arms. He looks soft, softer than anyone else she’s spotted in here, but there’s a darkness in his eyes that reminds Natasha of her own reflection.

“You’ve tried it, then?”

“Nah,” he says. “Better to watch other people fail. I'm just going to wait them out, and then I'm going home.”

Curious. With the way he’s built, she’d been expecting him to want to muscle his way out. It’s interesting enough that she doesn’t leave immediately, and he rummages around in the plain white sweatpants they’ve given him and comes out with a stack of cards.

“I cheat at poker,” he says, doesn’t ask about who she is or why she’s here, doesn’t even offer anything about himself beyond that. “Want to see if you can out-cheat me?”

She stays.

A strange things happens at eighteen.

“You got a parent coming to pick you up? A friend?”

Natasha doesn’t answer, just zips up her bag viciously enough to nearly snap off the tab. She doesn’t have either of those things. She never did. The attendant snorts at her reaction and she keeps her face passive through pure determination. It’s a miracle she doesn’t break his nose.

She cut off her hair last week. It’s jagged and messy, falling in uneven locks around her face, and it looks terrible. She can’t find it in herself to care. Today she walks free into a world that’s thrown her back to hell a thousand times.

“I don’t need anyone else,” she mutters at the attendant, who just shrugs and hands over the belongings they’d taken from her when she’d been locked up. There’s not much but the hourglass scarf is there, worn and covered in holes, and she wraps it around her throat before she pushes her way outside.

There’s a man leaning up against a car, still as blond and messy as the day she’d met him. He offers her a slow wave and straightens up, the purple highlights in his hair catching the light. He’s gotten a few more tattoos in these last months and one catches her eye - a spider on a thread inked on his throat, hanging down from his ear.

It's a black widow.

“Need a ride?”

“You don’t even know my name,” she says.

“Don’t need to,” he reasons. “But in the interest of pretending we’re polite people and not delinquents, I’m Clint.”

There’s no reason for her to trust him, or take him up on his offer.

She gets into the car. “Natasha.”

Twenty one.

“How was your brother?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Clint says blandly, shutting the door behind him. He stalks across the room and over to the couch without elaborating, and Natasha wonders what kind of a sibling could take out all the light in his expression like that. He’s sporting an ugly bruise on his face, hastily taped butterfly stitches over his eyebrow.

He’s come back, though, so Natasha can’t complain. She wonders when his presence started to matter so much to her. “Work starts in half an hour. Do you want me to fill in for you?”

“That wouldn’t be fair to you,” he says, one of those things he does that she doesn’t quite understand.

Clint finds the acoustic guitar they’ve picked up along the road and a melody starts, quiet and a little haunting.

Natasha starts humming without thinking, a different tune to the one Clint’s playing, but one that blends and mixes with the guitar. The sound echoes around their dumpy little apartment, loud enough that their upstairs neighbour starts banging on the floor to make them stop. Clint stands on the couch instead and starts shouting out an old punk song that Natasha only knows the lyrics to.

The neighbour bangs louder and shouts something that sounds like _gonna_ _call the cops, you shitheads_. They should probably heed his warning - this would be the third apartment they’ve been kicked out of in two months, and their record is suffering for it.

The thing is, this is the first time Clint’s shown any sign of life since he’d gotten the call that Barney had ended up back in jail.

 _Fuck it_ , she thinks, because Clint’s rubbing off on her, and then she gets up on the couch and starts yelling as well.

She’s twenty three when she quits the best job she’s ever had.

“What, why?” Tony sounds baffled even over the phone. “Should I be giving you a raise? Was I not offering you enough?”

“You paid me fifty dollars to fetch you a coffee,” Natasha answers dryly. “It’s not that. I have something else I need to do.”

“As long as you’re not in any trouble,” Tony says. “I’ll get Pepper to grab the paperwork, if you’re sure. Is there anything I can do before you leave, my favourite assistant?”

Natasha’s about to say _no_ because she despises the idea of being indebted to anyone, even a man who’s (surprisingly) been nothing but good to her while she worked there. She turns her head as she’s about to say it, though, and catches Clint gesturing excitedly at the amused tattoo artist trying to ink his ankle while he tells them a story. He’s using one hand to scratch at his clunky BTEs as he does, nearly dislodging them as he swings his other arm wide.

“Actually,” she says. “Have you ever done anything with hearing aids?”

“I’ve got some things to test,” Tony replies. “Been dabbling with prosthetics - you saw the arm I was making. Why, you got a test subject for me?”

“He’s going to need his hearing,” she says.

“Oh, is this the guy you’re always with? Going into business together?”

“I’ll be there at three. We’re starting a band,” Natasha tells him and then hangs up. The tattoo artist is making a pleading face at her now and she walks over, places a hand on Clint’s knee and digs her nails in just enough to get his full attention. He stills, like she knew he would, grins up at her cheerfully in a way that’s at odds with the pain in his eyes.

“I want a tattoo,” she says. “Help me pick a design.”

At twenty five, Natasha’s accepted there are no easy decisions besides deciding lunch.

“Okay,” the label representative says, rubbing his hands together. “So what we’ve got here is our plans for you from here on out. We want to make you the best you can be, and profitable for us as well.”

There’s a stack of paper he pushes over to her. Natasha flicks through the contract quickly. There’s a fair amount of writing there, but she’s perfected skim-reading from her StarkTech assistant job and she catches enough that it gives her a bad feeling.

“These plans are all about me,” she says. “What about Clint?”

“You’re the real star,” the man says dismissively. “Here are the merch designs we’ve already made. You wanted the red hourglass, right?”

“Barton writes all the songs,” Natasha says. “Where’s the merch for him?”

“We made stickers,” he tells her.

What the fuck?

“He does all the work,” she argues. “Hawkeye and the Black Widow is a two-person band - this makes it sound like you didn’t even listen to the music.” Or the small essay Clint had written about how much bass guitar is underrated in modern music, and how much he loves it. He likes talking about music almost as much as he likes playing.

“Look,” he says. “You’re a young, wonderfully attractive woman with a fascinating backstory. We can sell that. No one’s interested in another white punk with no personality and a bad haircut. He'll be completely deaf in a few years anyway. Look, I know your band’s been applying to all the record labels around - we’re the only ones willing to give you a chance, and either you do things our way or you go back to working at McDonald’s.”

Natasha's going to kick his ass. She opens her mouth to rip him a new one verbally before she does it physically and then her phone buzzes in her pocket, alerting her to a call coming through. The contact is labeled as a simple _C_ and she clicks to answer the call, still giving the rep as much of a death glare as she can.

“Hey,” Clint says breathlessly. “Just finished up playing with the kids. How’s the meeting going?”

“Well,” Natasha answers flatly, about to tell him exactly how much she despises the greasy man in front of her, and then Clint’s talking again.

“I can’t believe we finally get to do this,” he says. “Nat, this is my _dream_. Can you imagine being up on a stage together in front of all those people? It feels like - all the bad shit we’ve done, it was building up to something good. _This_ is something good.”

Her heart clenches a little inside her chest. “It means that much to you?”

“What? You know it does,” Clint answers. “What’s going on with the contract?”

She looks at the rep. Looks down at the floor. Swallows hard. Thinks about spending two and a half years in juvenile detention, how much longer she would’ve been locked away if an idiot with a pack of cards hadn’t kept distracting her. She thinks about the first person she’s genuinely _liked_ in her whole life and realizes she’s too weak to crush his dreams.

“It’s fine,” she says. “Signing it now. I’ll be home in an hour.”

She hangs up and fixes the rep with the most disdainful look she can muster.

“Barton stays,” she says flatly.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” he says.

She’s twenty seven when she starts doubting herself, and the decisions.

“Who are you?” a girl asks Clint, and she watches his easy grin falter, just a little bit. It wouldn’t be enough for anyone else to notice - Natasha’s perfected a mask of blankness, but Clint hides all his true feelings under other feelings, a kind of distraction technique that’s just as effective.

Clint doesn’t snap at the bewildered fan, just lifts one hand to point up at the _Hawkeye_ part of the _Hawkeye and the Black Widow: Meet and Greet_. He’s gotten a pattern of little stars up his middle finger and Natasha’s tempted to grab his hand and point the middle finger directly at the fan. It’s not her fault, but Natasha’s tired and vindictive and the satisfaction would be monumental.

She doesn’t watch the rest of that interaction, but she still notices that everyone is coming up to talk to her rather than her partner. A young man in black leather approaches her and she glances sideways at Clint, who’s started doodling in a notebook rather than paying attention to what’s going on.

“Hi,” the fan says. “Would you- I mean, could you sign my ticket?”

She gestures for it impatiently, pulls out a pen. “Name?”

“Billy,” he says. “It’s for my boyfriend, though. Could you address it to Teddy?”

Natasha writes a short note to the boyfriend, something she remembers Clint saying about chasing down dreams and catching them carefully with your fingertips. Billy shifts on his feet nervously while she’s doing it, glances behind him like he’s waiting for someone to drag him away.

“I just,” Billy says. “Sorry. Your songs got me through a lot of tough times, and it’s meant a lot. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you guys, stupid as it sounds. My brother would say the same if he was here. The lyrics, the music, it’s just… thank you.”

Natasha finishes her signature and pushes it back over to his side of the table. “You want to know who you should really thank?”

“I- what?”

She leans in close enough that Billy nearly takes a step back. He seems to remember she’s supposed to be his idol before he does, but he still looks nervous when her face is inches away from his. Natasha’s got her sunglasses on so it’s possible he can’t read her expression, and yet her words are still blatantly obvious.

She chooses to be aggressive. “You see that guy next to me? He writes all the songs. He wrote the lyrics. Tell him the things you just told me.”

She sits down again after that, crosses her arms.

It’s a challenge. She has to make it a challenge or it’ll end up as a plea, because Clint’s been drawing back from her lately and she hates it. There’s an interview tomorrow and Clint wasn’t invited, and she’s going to drag him along anyway but he _knows_ he isn’t the focus and it kills her. Billy’s eyes dart over to Clint and then back to her.

He snatches the ticket up and mutters out a quick goodbye before he flees, and Natasha sighs.

Clint's muttering something about coffee. The only thing that keeps her from giving up is the way he looks onstage, all lit up from the inside and dripping with sweat, grinning at her like nothing else matters.

At twenty nine, she meets the Winter Soldier.

It’s not intentional.

“So you think your label can swing the imbalance?”

“Sure,” Steve says. “I mean, I’m just a manager, but we’ve been working with Avengers Records for years and they’ve always been more interested in looking out for Bucky than bullying us into things we don’t want to do. I still make him do interviews, but it’s good.”

“Hmm,” Natasha says, takes a note down on her phone. “You think they’d take us?”

“Are you kidding? You guys are one of the biggest bands on the scene right now. They'd probably die from the excitement,” Steve replies.

“Our contract ends in two years,” she says. “Can you get me a meeting before then?”

“Sure,” Steve says. Then he leans forward, makes a concerned face like the ones she’s seen therapists wear on shitty television shows. “Why do you need to move labels? Are they treating you badly? I know there’s a lot of stigma about coming out over sexual harassment claims, but a lot of people would back you up.”

“They’re not treating me badly,” she says and then breaks off as a lump of oversized hoodie and unkempt hair appears in the trailer. It doesn’t say anything to either of them, just shuffles down to the cramped bunks behind them and flops onto a mattress. She only realizes a second later that it’s the Winter Soldier when Steve sighs and throws a pillow at the lump.

“I don’t know what to do with him,” Steve says.

“I don’t know what to do with mine either,” Natasha replies, and they share a smile.

Thirty is an interesting age.

“Hey there, hot stuff,” Clint says easily.

"Uh," Bucky says. "Hi."

They stare at each other for a few long minutes as Natasha watches from the corner of her eye. Clint’s smiling like an idiot. Bucky goes red underneath the stubble and messy hair, but there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips too when Clint uncaps the neon purple pen and starts scribbling something. It’s certainly different from the way either of them were acting this time last year.

Funny how fate works.

“See anything you liked onstage tonight, Bucko?”

“Might’ve,” Bucky answers. “Your backup guitarist is pretty fetching.”

Clint laughs at that, and Bucky lights up a little as well. “Phil’s a catch for sure, but I’m more into non-musicians right now,” he says, and Bucky chews at his lip.

He makes the mistake of looking over at Natasha the next minute, though, and Natasha raises the magazine she’s reading so Bucky can see the front page. It’s a red-lit spread of the Winter Soldier lounging against a wall, black mask covering his face and leather gloves covering the metal hand, no messy ponytail and hoodie.

She makes eye contact with him, gives him a flat stare.

He pales.

Natasha lowers the magazine.

“I’ve gotta go,” Bucky says and Clint pouts, just a little bit. He slides the paper Bucky’s brought for signing back over to him and they both linger when their fingertips brush, Bucky ducking his head and Clint with an increasingly delighted spark in his eyes.

“Why are you making that face?” Clint asks her once Bucky’s left.

Natasha tucks the magazine away, doesn’t speak the truth that’s tucked up inside her brain. “It doesn’t matter. Do you want to get burgers after this?”

Today she’s thirty one years old, and she’s fucked up.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bucky spits, darts out into the hallway. “Clint!”

Whatever he sees must be _bad_ because he doesn’t get any further than that. He takes one jerky step forward and then swears again, hops on one foot and pulls a shard of pottery from the other. Natasha’s frozen on the spot, and she’s sure that the sheer horror on Bucky’s face is mirrored on her own.

A few seconds later the horror fades off into despair, so clearly written on his face that it hurts.

It almost distracts her from the hollow pit in her own stomach.

“Is he- where would he,” Bucky starts.

“I’ll try and get ahold of him,” Natasha says.

Bucky limps back into the hotel room and sits heavily on the bed, leaving blood on the carpet. Natasha can’t find it in herself to care as she presses _C_ on her phone. The first call goes to voicemail, so she tries again, and then her phone informs her that _the number you have dialed is not currently available, please try again later_.

A few minutes later their manager informs her that Phil will be playing in Clint’s place for the remainder of the tour.

Natasha’s been trying so hard to make the right choices to make him _happy_. Now he’s left the job he loves and the man he loves, and she can’t help feeling like it’s all her fault for getting attached. Should’ve just ran away, like she did with Christina.

She sits down next to Bucky.

“I love him,” Bucky says.

“Yeah,” Natasha replies tonelessly. “Me too.”

She digs around in her suitcase - sitting at her feet, still enclosed in red heels Clint had bought for her birthday - and sees a scrap of glittering black, pulls the tattered scarf out and holds it up. It’s barely holding together now, and the red hourglass is faded and littered with tiny holes from wear and tear. Bucky doesn’t comment on it and she holds it close to her chest, falls back onto the mattress. 

Shit.

Natasha decides that she shouldn’t be allowed to make decisions anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Title Song: [ Protector - City Wolf](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JVla5FgJQso)


End file.
